Death of A King
by Mononoke-hime x sukai kurora
Summary: After almost a decade of devastating war, England confronts his brother Ireland for the last time.


_Death of A King_

It was raining. The rain pelted into the land, soaking the mud and soil held his people's blood from within. Many times over the centuries his people's blood had been spilled, making the grass run red and the soil scarred with the bodies beneath. So much blood had been shed and yet…and yet the pain that he felt now shadowed from all that he had experienced England stared at the person in front of him, hiss dull emerald eyes looking into face that he once considered his brother.

"So…you've finally caught up to me, eh?" His voice coarse and hard from running so long. His heart was still thudding against his chest without showing him a sign it would slow down, as if pleading with him to continue running way. I will not die like a coward, England thought as he desperately tried to stanch his wound. It still bled. I will die with dignity. A smile formed on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. The dark grey eyes didn't flicker when England spoke to him. "It's good to see you again…Ireland."

The dark grey eyed man snarled. "You have no right to call me that." The dark brown curls were flattened on his head from the rain, the droplets framing his angular face. He cocked his gun at England's forehead. The sunken emerald eyes stared at the weapon aimed at his head. Smoke lingered on the nose, masking the scent of the rain and of the heavy breathing that both nations.

"What should I call you then?" England whispered weakly. A deep shuddering sigh escaped from him. He lowered his head to the ground, the weight too heavy to support him. Dark and slick mud clouded his vison. Blood clogged in his lungs, making it impossible for him to breathe. Oxygen almost ceased to recycle in his lungs anymore. He choked on blood that always seemed to seep from his mouth. His internal organs were butchered. The darkness of the clouds and the rain made it impossible for his brother to see the faded and cracked blood against his lips and chin. England couldn't remember the last time his body had not shook in agony. All he smelled was death. His dull emerald eyes blinked, staring at the man he had once considered his brother.

"Not brother," Ireland whispered darkly. "I've wanted this for so long." He licked his lips, his finger lingering on the trigger. "For so long…I've wanted this."

"Mum wouldn't want this," England said softly. Blood gurgled in his lungs, making it hard for him to take a breath. He stared deep into his brother's eyes. "You know this."

"Mum isn't here now." Ireland observed him with cold eyes, the former rage of eons past gone now. "You're the one that killed her, after all."

England sighed, closing his eyes at the memory that had haunted his dreams until the Normandy Invasion. It seemed so fresh in his mind despite the fact that it was more than one thousand years ago that his mother died. He remembered the pure love and warmth around him as his mother, her emerald eyes identical to his own, embraced him, her beautiful golden hair curling around her shoulders. How he had loved to touch it. How her eyes brightened with happiness when she was with her sons. She had died two thousand years ago, killed by Rome himself. England had only vague memories of that time when he was in Rome's house. _"I know what it's like," _he had told a young America when he was afraid of being alone in such a big place. He had been very young when he had been kidnapped by Rome. His older brothers had been able to fight off Rome, as they were older and able to fight. England had only begun to speak when, as his mother was fighting Rome from her lands, he was kidnapped and had lived in that place for four hundred years before his mother had exchanged his life for hers. _"I will not allow my youngest son to live as a slave," _she had snarled at the Roman as England looked at his mother as tears streaked down his cheeks as his captor smirked while sipping wine and eating grapes. _"As he is meant to succeed me."_

He remembered of how she had embraced him the last time before she had died. _"I am meant to die today, my dear son. Your time will come as well. It is our curse, and I'm sorry you have to inherit it." _He remembered of how tears had come from her eyes. Words had failed his very young mind. The only thing he could do was to listen to last words his mother had given to him. She had embraced him, hushing him when sobs cracked from his throat and as thick fat tears streaked down his face. _"You have to be strong, Albion. Stronger than your brothers, stronger than me. You have be strong until you come to me again." _How could she be so strong when she cried? England didn't know how. The only person who had seemed so _strong _as tears wept from her eyes had been… _"Know this, my love. No matter what you do from here on out, I will always love you." _She had embraced him for the last time then, and despite his protests and cries, she had left him. Somehow he had known when she died. His brothers had known too. Although their mother had sacrificed his life for his freedom, the bond between five siblings had shattered. _That was the beginning of the end, _England thought as rained pelted onto his face. _Her name had been Adelais._ It was cold. His hair had never felt so wet before, not even of that September night. The caring eyes of his brothers had died, replaced by ones of hate. It was ironic, England thought. _Mum had sacrificed herself to save me, and yet her actions two thousand years ago would cause my death. _His emerald eyes stared into his brother's dark grey. _How I wish it would be different…but it's too late now._

"Not only did you kill her, but your first colony was our brother," Ireland whispered darkly. "How could you? You destroyed countless lives and countless people by your greed." A deep sigh escaped from him, a smile graced on his face. "Now you get what is rightly ours."

"It isn't what is done in the past," England whispered hoarsely, "but what we do now." _…Isn't that right, France? _Although he would never admit it to anyone, England had collapsed out of despair and grief over what he had exploited over the past centuries shortly after India had declared independence from him after sharing harsh words with each other. France had found him sobbing and blubbering at his house, the former proud nation reduced to intelligible gibberish and sobs. _"This isn't what my mother wanted, France! She didn't want me to grow up like this! I…should have died instead of this. I…should have…" _France had then held him then in his arms, speaking in the soft French that England had learned so long ago. His former enemy had told him that all nations had done actions that they were ashamed of. _"We are more human than we think we are, _mon Angleterre_."_ England had never told him of how the way his fingers stroked his hair reminded him of his mother and now of… _"We can't go back into the past and change it. Besides, I would not like that. You would not be the same _Angleterre_ that I know and love." His blue eyes echoed in England's own, making him feel as if he could see the very soul of the Frenchman._ _"It isn't what is done in the past, but what we do now."_

"Shut up!" Ireland roared. His eyes bored into England's own, hardened by almost a decade of hate. "Here you re, groveling in the dirt, dying before _me_." A sickening smile played on his lips. "Just as I was before you."

England coughed, blood leaking from his lips and onto his chin. He too remembered that time. Of Ireland and his twin sister, weeping as they clawed desperately at his knees, their bodies wasting away. Their thin faces and agonized whispers echoed in his mind as he remembered his maniacal laughter. _I was…_

"I'm sorry…" was his whisper, the words almost drowned out by the rain. That was the wrong word to say. A kick to the head sent sharp agonized waves through him. Pain was the only reality he had, ceaselessly growing larger and larger as Ireland kicked every inch of his body. He could vaguely hear screaming.

"Sorry?!" An explosion of pain erupted through his body as Ireland sent another vicious kick to the head. "You say you're sorry now?!" pure rage was in his eyes as he continued to wound the broken county before him. "Now that you're about to die, you want to save yourself from shame?!" The only sounds across the land were ragged breathing and thumps against the human flesh. Soon there was silence, broken only by the sound of the rain pelting on the ground. Ireland watched through hooded eyes as blood was being carried away by the rain. It poured from the prone figure lying in the mud, the blond hair soaked and plastered against the bleeding nations' forehead, the cold rain and warm blood against it. England's emerald eyes were mere slits, the orbs clouded by numbing pin. His breathing was slow. So slow that Ireland thought England dead. Then he saw a smile forming on his enemy's face, clots of blood forming around him as violent coughs shook from him. Hysterical laughter shook from him, the sound echoing into the sky until it faded as quickly as it had come.

"Was it worth…the pain, brother?"

"You know _nothing_ of pain!" Ireland snapped. His finger tightened on the trigger. "And don't call me your brother!" His voice rose to a hysterical pitch. "I _never_ was your brother." Suddenly a smirk graced his face. "The flag that once tormented my and my brother's dreams is gone now. We untied against you, remember? All that's left is the white flag complete with red. And do know what the red symbolizes?" Ireland crouched down to the nation's height and cupped his face, almost tenderly. Your defeat…your death." Ireland's face broke into a smile. "Your Commonwealth ceases to exist. Ever since everyone knew that you were losing the war, they abandoned you." He inched closer to so he could see England's bleary eyes. "They abandoned you, the worst thing you could have! It was your weakness, England! You hate being alone…" Ireland stroked the pale face. "There is no one to save you now. And now, you will die...alone."

Suddenly rough laughter escaped from him. _"Mo dheirfiúr dúr _is still mourning you. She think's you're dead." A snarl appeared on his lips when he said the next words. "I don't know why she likes you so much and you _banríon soith_ and _fucked suas talamh_. She must have been brainwashed." A sorrowful look appeared in his eyes. "Has she forgotten what we went through together? The sorrow...the agony..." He glared at the weak figure in the rain. England lifted his head and stared at his brother despite being almost being unconscious, a sad look in his eyes. _"Tá a fhios agat rud ar bith de pian."_

"I do know of pain, Ireland," came his hoarse reply. "I do know." Pain radiated through his head. "I know what is like to feel agony seeping through your limbs as your cities and landscape are dying around you." England took in a deep breath as an intense bolt of pain seared inside his chest. "I know what is like to never rest, afraid of the horror that haunts your dreams." His hand rested weakly against his chest as he coughed as blood splattered against the puddle created by the rain. An expression that was once so full of fury met his brother's cold one. "I know…what it is like to hear your citizens cry out as they die but…no one can hear them." A faint tremble appeared in his voice then, growing with each word. Hot pain seared against his eyes as despair and _guilt_ seeped from his cheeks. _I'm…crying? _His thin, pale hand stretched across his face. They were wet, soaking with tears. "I know what is now to be the conquered and not the conqueror…and for that I'm sorry." A sob almost reached his throat, and his desperate hollow eyes followed the nation standing before him. "I'm so sorry for that."

"No one can save you now, _England_." Ireland sneered, his malicious smile reminding England of his own not so long ago. His grey eyes brightened in satisfaction. "Everyone left you, didn't they?" His words became a whisper in the dark. "No one wants you." He crouched down to his brother's form and lifted him up so they looked deeply into each other's eyes. His breath echoed against England's bloodied face. "Even your precious G8 wants you to die."

_Ah…yes. _England thought. He remembered that meeting well. Their faces, so clear in his mind before, blurred as yet more tears continued to streak down his face. A small ironic smile echoed on his face. _Evangeline…_

* * *

><p><em>England was dying. He allowed himself to admit now. His formerly bright emerald eyes were dull with pain, and his sure steps were hesitant and weak, as if his body could no longer support him. Pain was a constant companion. England's breath hitched as a stab of agony seared through his stomach. The bleeding that he had managed to stop through bandages had now started again. He could feel the liquid against his faded uniform that he had worn since the days of World War II. Uneven breaths escaped from him as his footsteps wearily echoed along the hall. <em>Just one more step, _he urged himself. _Just…one more step. _A heavy sigh of relief escaped from his lips as he reached his pale, shaking hands to the door…_

_ Only to see Russia standing in front of him. The tall nation didn't betray any emotion as the wounded nation stood shakily before the entrance to the door. His lilac eyes, once playful and childish, hardened at the sight of England._

_ "You're late, England." Despite the happy tone that Russia always seemed to have, even in his exhausted state England could see malice within those eyes that had haunted his nightmares for centuries. _

_ "What does it matter?" England meant to snap at him, but it came out as a coarse whisper. "I'm usually late these days."_

_ "You mean always, _da_?" Russia stated while smiling with his eyes closed. A brief shudder went through England, tearing at his already seeping wounds. _

_ "That's how it has been, Russia." England stated tiredly. "Since the bloody war." Trying to regain some of his dignity, England stared into Russia's eyes despite the pain coursing through his head as he did so. "Now if you please, move."_

_ "I cannot, comrade." Russia's hard eyes looked across the broken nation before him. This man had once controlled all the seas and had what I had not, Russia thought wistfully, thinking of the near yet distant past. Everyone fears me, even now, and yet they feared him the most. And now..._ _"You are no longer part of the G8, England."_

_ "What?" England blanched. The tension in his face slacked, and was replaced by an expression of confusion. "What do you mean, Russia?" He flinched at the high octave of his voice, the slight cracking betraying his weakness. Not this…please, please…not this… came his erratic thoughts. His feverish, widened eyes never left Russia's emotionless expression._

_ "You are too weak to be one of us now, England." Russia's calm, cool lilac eyes betrayed nothing as he explained the situation to the breaking nation before him. "The war has taken its toll on you." England swallowed. Inside, his mind was screaming…screaming nothing but yet wanting to say _something. _"You can hardly stand anymore, my comrade." Was there a hint of sympathy, of pity in Russia's eyes? He smiled, a sad unusual smile. "You are no longer a nation." The brief emotion that had graced his face was replaced the playful expression he always wore. "You will become one with Mother Russia, now, _da_?"_

_ "No, you bloody wanker!" The question broke England of the despair gathering inside his stomach. The question reminded him of another time…lost now only in history books his citizens used to read. His trademark scowl filled his face again. "Now let me in!" He wasn't given any resistance. Russia simply stood by and watched him limp into the room. England had only simply snapped at Russia a moment ago, and yet his throat ached as if he had inhaled the gases he had inhaled one hundred twenty years ago, from World War I, inflamed him again. His back and chest continuously flamed in pain from the scarring and bleeding wounds despite walking so slowly. Somehow England found himself nearing his chair…finally…when a yell screamed in his ear._

_ "Iggy!" England gave an involuntary gasp as he felt America's arms encircling his waist. "You finally made it, man! I thought you would never come!"_

_ "Let…go." England wheezed hoarsely. The idiot America didn't realize he was crushing whatever what was left of England's internal organs. They had mostly been destroyed. America's voice faded in and out as he continued to hug him, but then suddenly England felt America's arms fade away, and England watched with wide eyes as his former colony looked at him in shock._

_ "You're not…supposed to be here." England struggled to catch his breath as he slightly leaned against the table. "Iggy…you're not supposed to be here."_

_ "I heard you twice, you git," England snarled despite the hollowness in his lungs. "I heard Russia tell me I'm not a member of the G8 anymore. Is this true?"_

_ He was met with silence. Steadily England looked around him. France, as usual, was flirting with the waitresses that always seemed to be there. Russia was frightening the Baltics, the former moment that they had apparently forgotten. Germany was trying to stop a furious Romano from choking Spain at the same time comforting Italy who had dropped his pasta. Meanwhile, China was watching the European countries with disapproval echoing his face and shaking his head. Switzerland had his trademark gun with him across the Asian nation, his eyes narrowing dangerously at the gathering nations. And Japan…England caught his eye, and the fellow island nation dipped his head in a slight greeting._

"Angleterre_, what are you doing here?" The shout ended the chaos enveloping in the room. The eyes of the other nations followed to where England leaned against the table, his face a mask of exhaustion. "_Angleterre_, I thought you were fighting a war on your little tiny island."_

_The comment that would once start another argument between the two had ceased to have meaning to England. "I am fighting a war, France. I just happen to be here…this time."_

"_But, dude!" America laughed. "You're always late!" Suddenly an expression of confusion echoed on his face. "Why are you late, anyway?"_

_England inwardly groaned. Trust the American had have his head up his arse. "Yes, I am fighting a bloody war. Is that unusual?" No one answered. "Why am I hearing this rubbish that I'm not a member of G8 anymore?"_

"_Did you not hear me the first time, England?" Russia's smile was sickening as his long arms stretched around the Baltics. "You're no longer a member."_

_The air seemed to be forced from England as he saw France slowly nod. "We cannot have _Angleterre_ be a member anymore, I agree, Russia." Laughter escaped from his mouth. "How can the former British Empire lose such a _merde _war against his brothers?" He gasped in mock horror._

"_Brothers?" America echoed, his blue eyes clouded with confusion. "But I'm not fighting Iggy. Nor is…what's-his-face."_

"_It's Canada," stated a small voice, but no one heard._

_China stood and pointed a glaring figure at the American. "It's Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, aru!" His golden brown eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Why do you Americans have to be so ignorant?"_

"_Hey!" America turned his face towards China. "My citizens can speak Chinese, you know!"_

"_It's called Mandarin, aru!"_

"Angleterre_," France stated with a smirk at England. "Is this little war really wounding you so? You shock me." His eyes that had once shown love and affection now only showed pity. "It's now wonder most of your citizens are living in America's house."_

"_Shut up," England muttered. A sudden hiss of pain made the nations glance at England. "You…have no right…"_

"_No right?" France's voice became quiet. "Who was the one that had to rescue you three years into your stupid little war of yours? Hmm, _mon Angleterre_?" _

_England stared in growing anger at the Frenchmen. How dare he mock him? "Do you want to start another Hundred Years War, frog?" he spat._

"_I don't think you could last another year, _Angleterre_." At France's words, England ran towards him despite the agony screaming in his limbs. He clenched the Frenchmen's so-called uniform with his hands. His breath echoed against the face of his former enemy._

"_Is that blood on your fingers, _Angleterre_?" England froze. France's eyes locked onto the bloodstained fingers and the nails crusted with dried blood. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then, he laughed and smiled a sickening smile at the weak nation before him. "I didn't realize you were this weak,_ Angleterre_!" Tears appeared from his eyes. "Why haven't you disappeared from this world already?" As the laughter continued, England found himself gaping as France let go of his hands and stumbled against the table._

What did he just say to me…? What…? _England felt the blood clotting in his lungs, and coughed as the dark red substance stained against his hands. _Why…does he want me to…? After I…?

"_We've already got a new replacement for you, Iggy!" England's turmoil increased as he witnessed America with his arms around China, who was smirking. "The new G8 member is China!" _

"_What?" England gasped. He pointed his bloodied finger at the Asian nation. "What about his human right abuses?" He turned to the ignorant American and the scowling China. "Have you already forgotten about Tibet, America? After what _he _did to him, I'm surprised Tibet still exists!"_

_China's furious golden-brown eyes met his own. "They're nothing compared to yours!" He pulled away from America and growled. "You almost killed me with opium!" England stiffened from the amount of rage in his eyes. "How many of my civilians did you kill? Millions!"_

"_You killed my people too, England." England turned to find India beside China as well. She still wore her dark orange sari that he had last seen her when she declared her independence from him in 1947…the one that England had made for her when she was just a child. "I remember hearing the screams of my people as they died, and I could do nothing to protect them from you!"_

"_It wasn't me…" England whispered desperately to his former colony. "Please, you have to understand that I had no role in what happened those days, Lakshmi!"_

_India's stoned face flamed in anger. "Don't you dare call me by that name!"_

"_But…" England whispered, a slight plea in his voice._

"_How could you send your own citizens to die on my land?" Australia stood from his chair, the evil-looking koala glaring at England. His brown eyes seemed to look beyond his former father figure before him, as if living in the distant past. Then he shrugged. "I suppose it makes sense. Your brother was your first colony, after all." _

"_How low, _Angleterre_," France stated with distaste. "I feel terrible for Wales for having to deal with you. And he was the one that raised you."_

"_He colonized me too!" England now stood, shocked as he heard America's voice among the others. "Has anyone ever heard of the Boston Massacre or the American Revolution, anyone?"_

"_America…" England's voice was barely audible, and pleading. He sought for understanding in the young nation's eyes. "I thought…you said that…we should put the past behind us. You told me it didn't matter anymore!" Rough coughs tore from his mouth after the scream that came from him._

"_Nope." America's smile had never shattered England's heart as it did now. "I lied, England." He sighed. "I didn't like to see you unhappy and sobbing all the time, but all this time I was lying." His blue eyes become cold. "I…just remembered all the things you did to me." Blue eyes dark with anger met the stunned emerald. "I was just profit to you, wasn't I?" Hot pain seared through England's eyes, and he realized with horror that tears were starting to form in his eyes "I am still haunted by what happened when I was your colony." _

"_No one wants you here." England's face paled at the sound of France's voice, his expression relentlessly causing the nation's heart to shatter. "You allowed so many of your citizens to die, _England_." A small, sickening smile graced his face. _Why…is the sound of my name…causing so much pain? _England started to breathe heavily, his throat constricting as bile started to settle in his throat. "It's a failure for a nation."_

"_Yeah, Iggy's no longer a nation anymore!" Tearing his eyes away, England turned his tearing eyes to America, who was smiling as if the world was entering a new peace. "Most of his citizens are in my house, anyway, and do you know why?" No one answered. "Because I'm the hero!"_

"_Hero?!" England snarled. "You're no hero, Alfred! Who was the one that fled after two bloody years of war?! Who was the one that defended the entire bloody Europe during World War II?! You're no one's hero!" _

"_Shut up." The ice-cold tone of America's voice caused England to start. The cold eyes had only been seen once in England's memory. When America had become obsessed about terrorism and had been intent on destroying the Middle East. "Did you hear what France just said? You're not one of us, anymore, England." The emerald eyes that had once adored the little colony now widened, a soundless scream echoing in his head as America shouted the next words. "You were never my brother to begin with! _Never!_ Why can't you just die!"_

_England's tears flowed down his cheeks, hot and thick, staining the carpet below him. The former nation that once had the respect of the world now had none, and everyone wanted him to die…to disappear… The Commonwealth nations looked away, the anti-English feelings strong since they had left him and the war six to two years ago. Even Canada had left. The solemn eyes echoed in his mind as he remembered one of the many days he had fallen into despair. His halting footsteps and unseeing eyes focused on nothing around him. His pale, shaking hand found the door handle, and he was about to open it when he felt a knowing stare across his back. At the corner of his eye, he saw Japan's sad smile aimed at him, and the grief within those black depths. It was odd. Despite the relationship they had with other respective countries, Japan was the one nation that stood by him. Despite the world dying around England, Japan had been chosen to protect England's closest and most precious secret. England gave a final nod to his friend. Then, he exited the room to go home._

_England had managed to rest while on the plane. His dreams had usually been nightmares, feeling the agony of the seven years as his people wept and screamed and despaired as they died. How he wanted to protect them. How he saw so many of them die again and again in his dreams. But this time he had no dreams. He dreamed of nothing…not even of her. _

_When he awoke, England walked along the path that had once been the busiest street in London. All the cities that he had seen born and grow had died, leaving nothing but rubble and mud. How he hated the sight of mud. So many people had been buried beneath it. In the early years of the war, England had watched as soldiers were given a proper burial with their families weeping and the crowd somber. Eventually civilians were killed, their eyes often open and fear forever in their eyes. They too had been buried with respect. Soon by the fifth year of the war, bodies had been left behind. Even those not dead yet or those so weak they could not carry themselves would be left behind. England had been with so many of his people in their final moments. They had no idea who he was, but why would he tell them? They would likely hate him…and hate him they should. The land that he had loved and the forests he had once lived in as a very young nation were now destroyed. Nothing was left of him. Everything was now a barren wasteland. It had been like this for two years, and that was when England knew that he was dying._

_Or perhaps it had been her death that had caused his heart to be finally be broken? England wasn't quite sure. Either way, both of them were dead. England remembered of the time of when he hadn't known what despair and agony had felt like for almost one hundred years. He remembered what it was like to not know that she in fact existed. Who knew that in seven years, the land of England and of the nation himself would be dead, with his citizens broken and war-torn as they scattered away from the island they had once called home? Who knew that this day would come to pass?_

_It had started when Queen Elizabeth II had died in 2025. The entire nation had been stunned with grief. England had been grieving as well, but he was surprised that his beloved queen had lived that long. She had been ninety-nine years old, bound to a wheelchair, and yet still able to maintain the grace of a monarch despite her advanced age. England remembered of how it seemed that his citizens seemed to be solemn the entire moth when she died, and recalled France teasing him about "mourning a woman past her prime and beauty." He had snapped at him to sod off. It didn't help matters that his three older gentlemanly brothers appeared indifferent to the queen's death, or in fact relished in it. Only Northern Ireland mourned the queen as England did. He recalled soothing her to sleep by stroking her auburn hair, and comforting her as she recounted of how kind the queen had been to the fellow nation. He held her hand as they attended shadowed by the royal family, seeing the heartbroken look on their faces. After coming home that day, England had embraced his sister as she sobbed. A couple days later, William V was crowned as king. _

_The queen's son had been her successor, but he had died one winter night five years earlier from a fatal brain tumor. And thus, the queen's grandson became king. It was quiet after that, only broken by the subsequent independences of Scotland and Wales. England should have known the signs then._

_Then, six year later on September 28, 2031, the royal family was assassinated. The screams and blood echoed in England's dying mind even now. He still remembered of how the blood splattered against the walls, the shots fired, and the old fashioned sword singing its song. Prince Harry's head had been put on a pike, the eyes frozen shocked and tears still wet as he witnessed his wife and children die before his eyes. England had been helpless to save them. His blasted idiot of a king locked him in the closet as the blood-curling screams echoed in his ears. He himself had seen his king, the boy that had once confused him for a knight, fall as blood stained and spread across his chest. England felt a scream choke in his throat as he desperately tried to reach the children. The youngest was on the ground, her eyes glassy and expression stunned as her older brother tried to stifle his sobs as he put himself in harm's way to protect her. England had been too late. The brave boy who would have made a wonderful king had died from a bullet wound to his head as his little sister screamed as his blood rained on her. England had managed to save her, spiriting her away just as the bullet meant for her entered his back._

_The only survivor of the royal family, Princess Adeline, aged fifteen, was sent into hiding. No one except England knew where she resided. The entire world appeared to be shocked by the assassination of the royal family in Buckingham Palace during the late hours of the night, and England had been surprised when even the countries he didn't particularly get along with apologize personally to him. England remained bedridden for weeks. It was during that time that Northern Ireland was kidnapped by Scotland. Her boss was also killed. Supposedly, Northern Ireland's citizens had voted overwhelmingly to secede from England. The nation didn't believe it, nor did the others. The war had started in the early hours in the morning of November 12, 2031. _

_It was revealed that on Scotland's and Scotland's boss' orders, the royal family had been killed by spies pretending to be hired guards to the royal family. The IRA had killed Northern Ireland's boss, and Scotland had kidnapped the nation's personification himself as Wales plotted to destroy their most hated enemy. America had helped out during the war at first. He had stayed for two years, before the casualties were too high in his country mixed with "limey" feelings. Then he had left, taking France with him. During the seven long years of war, England had fought his hardest to protect his people from his brothers' wrath. But so many had died. On the battlefield. At home. Last year, he had even asked France to marry him, similar to how France had proposed to him almost one hundred years. The Frenchman had laughed in his face, mocking him and calling him weak. England felt tears streak down his cheeks at the insufferable memory. How could sorrow be expressed in words knowing that thirty-five million of his people had died? That nine thousand of Scotland's and Wales' and Ireland's people had died?_

_And without anyone to comfort them as they lied dying._

_He had tried to save them, but it had all been for nothing._

_England took a shuddering breath as his house came into his sight. His brothers' bombs had not demolished the place that he had lived in for centuries. He supposed that it was their way of showing him that he would always be, alone. His feet echoed against the bare floor, too numb beyond caring to notice mud tracking in the house. His tired eyes surveyed the room. Two simple armchairs stood before the barren fire place, a book forlorn upon the cloth. He could almost see her again, smiling as he came home from a meeting with his boss or another chaotic World Meeting. He could see her dark brown eyes, once solely focused and serious upon what she was doing, soften when she met his eyes. "Arthur…" she murmured lovingly._

_Evangeline… _

_The mirage disappeared as quickly as it came, and England found himself in the dark despairing present again. His wounded body winced again as another spasm of pain seared through him again, trying desperately to not think of her. But he couldn't. She was still haunting him, despite dying over two years ago._

"_Daddy?" England looked down to find a pair of emerald eyes identical to his own searching his face. "What's wrong?" Her plump hand touched his faded uniform, her eyes lingering on the paleness of England's face. "Daddy?"_

_England sighed, a soft smile reserved only for her now, as he picked up her tiny form in his arms. He held her close to his chest, making it so that she could hear his soothing heart as always. For some reason his daughter was comforted by the sound of his heart. England had no idea why. Even when she was a baby, she immediately calmed at the sound. England tangled his cold hands through her hair, the blond hair mirroring his own. His daughter looked exactly like him, with his messy blond hair and emerald eyes. England had noted fondly that she had her mother's thin eyebrows, something that Evangeline had laughed at. "Your eyebrows are beautiful, love." Evangeline had whispered to him late at night as they held each other, a loving smile on her face. England had heard this many times since they had met years ago, but this whisper seemed different somehow. He had kissed her lips, soft and gentle as he felt her smile against him._

_Their daughter had been born during the third year of the war. Although her size made it seem that she was two, she was actually four years old. Before her birth, England and Evangeline had discussed the possibility that their child could be a nation. England had watched his daughter carefully as she grew, looking for any signs of growth or intelligence too advanced for a human child. England knew that Evangeline had been afraid for their little girl despite not saying otherwise, and he had comforted her and himself as much as he could. Then, their worlds had come crashing down. Evangeline had died during the massive bombing campaign of London while he was away in the countryside trying to diplomat a truce with his brothers. Somehow through the emptiness he had felt when the pain went away he knew that she had been of the one of the thousands that had lost their lives that day. He had felt nothing at first. Then there was this searing, excruciating agony that tore his heart and soul. It was a sadness too deep for tears. As he sat there with nothingness in his heart, he felt small hands attempting to hug him. Tears started pouring down his cheeks when he realized that his daughter was trying to take away his pain despite of the young life that she had. It was then that he let go. _

_England put the child down, closing his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again. He stared into his daughter's emerald eyes, so much like his own, and felt sorrow wave across his heart. He held her hand in his. "We're going, little one. Is there anything you want to say goodbye to?"_

_The little girl shook her head. "No. I want to stay with you," she stated with solemn eyes. "That's all I want." She tugged at his uniform with her hands. "Pick me up, Daddy."_

_England took her in his arms, his hands encircling themselves in her hair again. The girl seemed to be at peace, humming a toneless song as she was held in her father's arms. England closed his eyes and kept her close to him, not moving for what seemed to be a stilled moment in time. Forgive me, he thought as he held the content girl in his arms. Forgive me, my love._

_England had walked only a few kilometers when a shot rang in the air. A burst of pain spread inside his insides as a lone bullet embedded itself in his flesh. The stain spread, leaking across the material as it dripped onto the ground_

"_Daddy!" England looked to see his daughter's fearful eyes meet his own, crying out as she saw his blood dripping onto the ground. "Daddy!" England heard the bullet before he saw it. He ducked, hearing his daughter's choked scream as their faces both collided with mud. "Daddy!" Her hair was now smeared with dark mud. Her face was too, and England forced himself to find strength to speak as he took her own trembling hand in his own. He picked her up again, cradling her against his chest, as he began to run. "I know you can't swim, but you must be good at running. You couldn't have been the Great British Empire for nothing." Her voice, always haunting, echoed in his ears as he stumbled and fought to breathe. Evangeline… _

_Another shot entered his ears. England heard his daughter scream as she collided with the ground. England lied there, feeling the scar throb in agony as the old wound was hit again. He was only aware of the pain…of the cold…and of the mud wet against his dying form. His fading daughter calling for him, screaming. He could see her tears flooding from her eyes. Alice… England thought as his mind faded in and out. "Daddy!" So…much pain…so tired… "Daddy!" So…tired. "Daddy, don't leave me!" England's eyes suddenly opened, his eyes widening as he remembered so many of his people screaming those words out as they died. He remembered their pain, their agony. He remembered Evangeline, cupping his face in her hands. "I am yours, and you are mine." Her soft voice echoed in his ears as tears fell on her fingers. It had been the fifth year of the war, and the most devastating. "I will not leave by your side as long as you live on this earth." His shaking hand stroked his daughter's face, the agony expressed echoing in his mind. _

"_You have to listen to me, my love." The tears streaked down her cheeks, mirroring the rain that was now flowing from the sky. "Even though I will no longer exist in this earth…I will always…love you." England rasped as his fingers stroked his daughter's face, feeling the tears coat on his hands. "I will never leave you…not as long as you survive." A sob rose in his throat. "Forgive me, my dear poor child. Forgive me, _mon petit lapin_." His voice choked even more upon uttering the term of endearment that France had given him so long ago. Her hair was soft against his fingers. "It is a terrible burden you have to bear," England whispered into her hair. "I'm sorry." Mum… "Now…go…until he finds you." Her red eyes met his. "Please…" _

"_No!" Tears continued to streak down her face. Her blond hair was firmly soaked against her forehead, and her high pitch of her scream made her seem younger than what she was. "Please…Daddy…" she sobbed, clinging to him as her traumatized face echoed in his eyes, her fingers heavy against his body. "I want…to stay with you. Please…don't leave me."_

"_Go now!" England whispered furiously. He could see the depth of the hurt and the agony in those emerald depths…that had once belonged to him so long ago. He watched her as she stumbled, losing her footing as violent sobs tore from her entire being. Then she started to run, her figure disappearing beneath the rain. "Go now…" His voice failed him as it faded with the rain, as the inner sorrow he held within him for so many years came to haunt him as a sob rose in his throat. _Pardonnez-moi…mon cher, mon pauvre Alice. _It had been such a long time since he had spoken the language. France…no, Francis, had taught him the tongue of the nobles and of those previously out of reach. Although he would never admit it, England always remembered Franis' language. Even when he spoke it now, the words felt so right on his lips. He remembered the last time he had spoken to Francis in French. How long ago he had spoken it, in the darkest moments of history...the Bubonic plague...the death of Elizabeth I...the Blitz...the loss of Francis...the assassination of the royal family and the death of his Evangeline... How long ago it was… that he had spoken without a care in the world to Francis... and to Evangeline... _Je suis tellemen… désolé. Se il vous plaît ... supporter cette charge ... comme je l'ai. Je suis tellement…désolé pour la charge que vous…avez à supporter. Mon cher…Alice._ And how he had also whispered… _

Je ne te quitterai jamais…

_He started to slowly stand, the blood sluggishly mixing with the rain. _

_That was when he saw Ireland walking towards him, his cold grey eyes boring into his own, the gun by his side. _Je te aime tellement…

* * *

><p>"Your time has come, England. At long last." Ireland released his grip on his former brother, and observed in silence as the dying nation looked up at the sky, the emerald eyes he had inherited from their lost mother peaceful…against the hatred in the other. He pointed his gun at England's forehead, and clicked the trigger before whispering, "Any last words?"<p>

_Japan…please take care of her. She has much to learn about becoming a new nation. _A sad knowing smile echoed on England's face. _She'll be a better country than her father once was. _He thought about the scenes he had witnessed throughout the centuries. Of the history. Of the people he had been honored to meet. Of how a part of him still wanted to live.

But it was time.

_ "__Is breá liom tú, deartháir."_

Ireland's eyes widened at the sight of the sound of the familiar words. A faint memory of England sneering, stating that he would never speak that "uncivilized language" again. The same nation was looking up at him now, tears trailing down his face as he smiled.

"Farewell, Ewan."

That was when the shot rang out.

* * *

><p>I apologize if this story has any FrUk undertones. I tried to make this not a romantic story, but I love FrUk to much to not write about it. You might be wondering why England speaks French if he "hates" it so much. I believe the former nation remembered the time when he was heavily influenced by France's culture and language; but he only speaks it when he is either very afraid or in such great pain that he is not aware of himself.<p>

The Great Famine - A massive number of potato crop failures caused approximately one million death in Ireland between the years 1845 to 1852. Needless to say, the Irish do not get along with the English.

During the nineteenth centuries, the English military committed many atrocities in India, including massacres. Many of the victims were women and children.

From 1839 to 1842, the British East Indies Company illegally brought opium to China, causing many Chinese to become addicted. Combined with two lost wars and casualties from addiction, the Chinese lost millions of people.

Wales is thought to be the first colony by the English. The nation was colonized in 1283.

Convicts from England and other parts of the British Isles were forced to slave labor in Australia, and the nation was later colonized in 1788.

The Boston Massacre – the result of five civilian deaths "provoked" by the English military.

American Revolution – America's independence from England that lasted from 1775 to 1781.

The Lhasa Massacre – On December 13, 2020, several Tibetan minority university students studying in Beijing attempted a revolution for independence that resulted in mass casualties in Tibet spanning weeks of bloodshed and of the Chinese government taking more control over the region. The national personification of Tibet is bedridden to the present day.

_Mo dheirfiúr dúr_ - My stupid sister

_Banríon soith _- Bitch queen

_Fucked suas talamh_ - Fucked-up land

_Tá a fhios agat rud ar bith de pian._ - You know nothing of pain.

_Angleterre_ - England

_Mon Angleterre_ - my England

_Merde_ - Shit

_Padonnez-moi...mon cher, mon pauvre Alice._ - Forgive me...my dear, my poor Alice.

_Je suis tellemen… désolé. Se il vous plaît ... supporter cette charge ... comme je l'ai. Je suis tellement…désolé pour la charge que vous…avez à supporter. Mon cher…Alice._ - I'm so sorry. Please...bear this burden...as I have. I'm so sorry for the burden you have to bear. My dear little Alice.

_ Je ne te quitterai jamais ... -_ I will never leave you...

_Is breá liom tú, deartháir. _- I love you, brother.

I am using Google Translate, so everything is probably not one hundred percent correct.


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